


Plus La Change

by InterNutter



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Social Nastiness, implied squick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some manifestations are greeted more readily than others. This... is one of the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus La Change

Disclaimer: I do not own the X-men nor pretend I ever did. I could try to own the alternate reality depicted below, but Marvel would probably sue me to oblivion. All I own is Sara and her associated relatives. Please don't steal them. Thanks ^_^

Plus la Change...  
InterNutter

They say blindness is eternal darkness. For some, I suppose that is true. I've often wondered how a blind person knows what they're experiencing *is* darkness in the first place. If they've never seen the difference - how could they *know*?  
One account I read - when I could still read - had the experiencer recount that blindness was light without meaning. Nothing but brilliant light.  
For me, blindness is like being in an endless fog. A real pea-souper.  
Some shapes filter though, if they're close enough. Just enough clarity for discerning that something is there, but not for telling with any certainty what it actually *is*. I've been blind a dozen times by now. A baker's dozen. Unlucky for some.  
Certainly me.  
This time, the cure stopped working at all. Multiple doses, concentrated doses, direct exposure, you name it - I got it. And nothing worked anymore.  
Mother was furious. Still *is* furious. It was the second time in my life that she harangued me until I had a fit. I blacked out, it was so bad that I have no memory between the floor and the car, racing along at breakneck speeds. A suitcase hit me repeatedly on my arm. And something lumpish at my feet suggested my knapsack. The very same lugggage I took with me to MedTechCorp. The luggage that I took home with me after being weighted in the balance and found wanting; and, I was certain, the very same things inside, undisturbed by my mother's 'loving' touch.  
Mother turned a corner on two wheels and I shrieked, imagining my next, few, and likely last moments to be tumbled about like a penny in a drier before meeting my early demise. But Mother's SUV righted itself and fishtailed along its way.  
I was surprised by the absence of sirens after that one. I kept listening, but none seemed wont to follow us.  
I daren't speak. Not after that corner. Stunt driving was a sure and certain symptom of an unexploded Mother. So I clung to the passenger handle with one hand, and my seatbelt with the other, and started wishing I wasn't so logically atheistic.  
_Calling all non-bodied higher powers,_ I thought. _If anyone out there would like to help me survive this, I will be most grateful._  
I didn't think an 'Amen', since that word seemed to belong to YHWH and his associated flavours. Besides, any hyperintelligent, thought-based entity worth worshipping should rightly know when I'd stopped praying and gone right back to being frightened out of my wits.  
The squealing brake, combined with the seatbelt and my own death-grip on it, drove the wind out of me. I just had enough gasping sense to listen for traffic, when I heard Mother open her door. Were we here? Or just at a necessary fuel stop? I looked for vague clues and listened with all my might.  
My door opened. The perfumed bulk of Mother reached past me and tossed things behind her. Ah. So it was time I left. I unbuckled myself and knew better than to move before Mother told me to. I just did my level best to squeeze myself flat as she tossed my belongings out of her car as if emptying it of trash.  
I never knew she had a gun until she cocked it against my temple.  
"Out."  
Fear gave me speed. My affliction gave me clumsiness. Between the two, I floundered my way to the suitcase.  
It took supreme force of will to retain control of my bladder and bowels.  
"Never come home again," she said. "You're dead to me."  
Then the car door slammed and I was sprayed with pebbles and assaulted by the stench of burning rubber as Mother and her car shrieked away.  
Okay. I owed an unnamed spiritual entity a candle or something. I found the edge of the drive and made a small pyramid of driveway gravel. Until I found out more about the place in which I'd been abandoned, it would have to do.  
"Thanks," I murmured, "whoever you are."  
Now for the rest of it. I found my suitcase and used it as a base of operations. So far to the road. So far to the edge of the drive and my little offering to the higher power that helped me. And from the edge, tracing it the other way, it was quite a ways to a very fancy stone fence.  
Expensive work. My fogged eyes found a dark patch for my hands to explore.  
Professor Charles Xavier's School for the Gifted. Fancy. And, according to the very expensive font underneath, waifs and strays always found their place here.  
I could only hope that policy held by now. For all I knew it was some ancient and lofty quote that was no longer held as an ideal. You know, like all of those barbecue instructions in Leviticus.  
"You need help, darlin'?" said a gruff voice on the other side of the wall.  
I found vertical bars there. "Does the policy on the plaque still hold?"  
"Plaque?"  
"Those without hope or fortune, ecetera. In other words, do you still accept the lost and forlorn? Because I think I apply."  
"Yeah. Heard th' tires squealin'."  
"Alberquerque heard the tires squealing," I said. "Am I as welcome as the plaque says?"  
"Sure. Getcha stuff and come in."  
Great. And I hadn't found it all, yet.  
The suitcase was intact, but my knapsack had suffered badly in transit, and Mother had tossed stuff every which way bar widdershins. Therefore I had to find out by trial and error where my things were.  
"Can't see much, can ya, kid?"  
"Not much, no."  
And then there was a presence in the fog, moving quickly, like some kind of laundry-predator. Evidently, he found the knapsack first, as there were lots of rapid stuffing motions.  
Finally, he took my armload from me and took my hand. For such a small man, he had a fleet pace. I think the fact that I just widened my stride annoyed him, since he laid on speed until I was obliged to trot.  
"Logan!" Another stranger called. "What's going on?"  
"One o' yours, Slim," said the gruff little man. "Kid's newly blind."  
"And you're dragging them along at that speed?"  
"Fine, you handle it." There was a thump as my pack hit the ground, and then this Logan fellow was gone.  
"That was rather... brusque..." I said.  
"Rude was what I was thinking," said the man Logan had called 'Slim'. "Hi. My name's Scott Summers."  
"Sara Louise Adrien," I told him, offering my hand. "Trusting in the kindness of strangers."  
Amazingly, he took it and shook it. I knew I must've looked a fright. And infectious. "Welcome to mutie school."  
"Ah, *ha*! That's why she deposited me."  
"Um..."  
"My mother dropped me off. Somewhat literally. There was a gun involved."  
"Ouch." He evidently preferred to change the subject. "Did you ever learn to use a stick or a dog?"  
"No, They never bothered. As soon as my eyes clouded over, it was injection time, I'm afraid. They were more interested in their cure than anyone's comfort. Numbers, progress, and how's experiment five seven two doing? That sort of thing."  
"There's a cure out?"  
"Don't fret, Mr Summers. They obviously haven't perfected it yet." I smiled. "After all, I happen to be completely immune."  
Mr Summers suddenly became just as rude as Logan, whisking me inside a building and barely remembering the important stuff like telling me where the steps were.  
Upstairs, he barged into a room where an enraged teenager protested.  
"Hey! Learn to *knock*!"  
"ThisisSara," said Summers. "She'sstayinghere." And he hauled my things onto the upper bunk and took off at warp seven.  
"Humph," I announced. "I'm guessing Mr Summers learned his manners sailing the hypocri-sea?"  
"He's never like that," said my roomie. "Um. Can you see out of those?"  
"Not a lot," I confessed.  
"Whoa. I'm gonna like, check for holes in the Universe. Mr Military has a Thing about being like, good to the blind? He never goes against his Things."  
"It must have been my news about the cure," I said.  
"Anti-X?" said the girl. "We know about it. Got it tied up in a lot of red tape as we speak."  
"Oh," I said. "Then would immunity count as big news?"  
"Hellfuck *yeah*. Dur. No wonder he ran off. You're like, the Philosopher's Stone or something."  
I twitched. Violently. "But I'm," twitch, "I'm not that," twitch, "that special."  
"Oh... kay..." she drawled. "I'm Kitty Pryde. No smart comments, thanks."  
"Sara Louise Adrien," I said. "Not thinking any."  
"Oh. Cool."  
"Mind if we swap bunks?" I begged. "I kind of get vertigo."  
"But you're like, blind."  
"It's worse when one can't see how far one has to fall."  
Silence. Followed shortly by the busy sound of an athletic girl shifting things around.  
"Don't mind Lockheed," said Kitty. "He's a real softie. Honest."  
"I can't even see Lockheed." I felt near the floor level and switched to PetSpeak. "Lockheed... come on? Wants be friends?"  
Instead of the expected sniff and contact with fur, I felt a downdraft and claws perching on my head.  
"Hoy," said a small voice.  
I reached up. Smooth scales, but no lizard I knew was arranged like *that*. Then I felt the wings.  
"A... dragon?"  
"Yah," said Lockheed.  
And the next thing I knew, I was blubbering like a child, clutching the squirming creature close in my arms and huddling on the floor.  
"...yike.."  
Kitty became a warm presence, simultaneously comforting me and attempting to prise my fingers off her pet miracle.  
"He needs to breathe, too, Sara. Let go a little. Come on... just ease up. Thaaat's it. Easy now. That's the way. You okay, Lockheed? It's okay. It's all okay." She finished with a 'glurk' noise as I clutched at her, too.  
"...gleep," said Lockheed.  
"Geez, what's with the meltdown?" said a newcomer. "I could feel it halfway across the campus."  
"Get lost, Frost," Kitty managed.  
"Eee-ouk," Frost sneered. "I know exactly what happened. It got a good look at its face."  
"No," came my voice out of my throat. "I heard about your fashion sense."  
I sensed Frost's ire and outrage as if it were a fire inside her.  
"What the hell did that just say?"  
"I called you a fashion victim, Frost. Which word do you need a definition for?"  
"I don't need to waste the energy on this."  
"The flying hell?" said Kitty. "Do you like, have a death wish or what?"  
"I..." what the hell *had* I been thinking? "I guess... I'm just plain tired of being afraid of monsters like her."  
"Monsters?"  
"Dragons - not the Lockheed type - Gorgons, even an old-fashioned Sphynx or two. Definitely some harpies. I've met them all, dear. And I'm thoroughly tired of being their dumping ground."  
"You picked a really bad target. Frost's like, a teep."  
"I doubt she could do anything to my psyche that hasn't been done already," I said. "I've lived with bigger monsters than her."  
"Well, you just made an enemy out of the biggest one in this school."  
I quoted Vorkosigan. "Aim high, that way, you can't shoot yourself in the foot."  
"Okay. Now you're officially, like, crazy."  
"Care to show a blind lunatic around the place?" I said.  
"Sure. You *so* need a keeper."

Marrow idly plucked a bone out of her face and flicked it idly at a passing Popular. Missed by a mile. Not that she was intending any harm. The Professor frowned on that sort of thing.  
She smiled for Kitty and the newcomer, having already heard about the meltdown and subsequent shoot-down. She already rooted for the Newb. And, since it was also circulating that the new kid couldn't see, Frost had already lost points.  
"This is one of our rec rooms," Kitty was saying. "Like, careful how you step."  
"Ahah. W and K optional, I take it."  
"More like mandatory," said Marrow. "I'm Marrow. One of the freaks."  
"Rather an honest freak than a dishonest norm. Sara Louise Adrien, likely to remain in the former category."  
Now she grinned. "I *like* you."  
"And that," announced Kitty, "is a portent of doom if you like, ever want one."  
"What's one body part that Bester of PsiCorps never moves?"  
"His left hand," _Damn!_  
The newb smiled. "Kindred spirits, I knew it!"  
"I could read you my fanfic on the subject..."  
"I don't go *that* far, my dear."  
"Rats."  
Kitty boggled a clear, _You *let* her call you that?_  
Marrow shrugged. "C'mon, it's nearly lunch. I'll show you where the Freak table's at."  
"I thought all mutants were deemed to be freaks."  
"Some of us are freakier than others."  
"Huh. How Orwellian."

The big cafeteria echoed, and, as it was a few floors underground, I guessed the views weren't much. A touch of the metal wall confirmed my mental imagery of some pretty stark decor.  
"Not a lot to look at, but there's always good food and at least one person to talk to," said Marrow. "Only the artists prefer upstairs to down here. Inspiration and all that."  
"And there's like, little kitchens all over the place. Y'know, in case you want your own flavour."  
"Sounds tempting," I said. "You may need a crowbar."  
"You like to cook?"  
"I *adore* cooking. I live to cook. It's almost my raison detra, save that I have far too many hobbies."  
"Yeah?" said Marrow. "And how many is too many?"  
I started ticking off my fingers. "Let's see. Jewellery, tailoring and dressmaking, cooking, cartooning, animation in general, filmmaking, special effects, makeup effects, arts and crafts... I do believe I learned to knit at some stage. Lots of reading..."  
"Geez, girl. Do you sleep?"  
"Only for a few hours, I'm afraid. I'm terribly easy to get bored." By now, I knew we were queueing, since my questing fingers had found a rope and post. There was also the low-grade babble of teenagers waiting to be fed.  
"I'm almost sorry I asked," said Marrow. "Still, it sounds like you could be some real fun once you settle in."  
"Not so much to start with. And not a lot towards the end, I'm afraid."  
"Huh?" said Kitty.  
"My -ah- transformation," I explained. "It's almost like a debilitating disease. First my eyes go, then my hearing slowly drops out, then my nose plugs up, and all the time, it hurts to do more and more around the place. Not a lot of fun, really."  
Kitty coughed her way around, "...understatement..."  
"You know what happens in the finish?" said the fatally curious Marrow.  
"Never have," I said. "Stage three's usually when MedTechCorp really shoved the cure into me. This'll be my first time finding out."  
Lockheed risked perching on my shoulder and rubbing against me while coo-ing in one ear.  
"Don't be sad, dear," I absently petted him. "I can't be special enough for a fatal transformation. I did look up the statistics. They're astronomically rare."  
Marrow and Kitty were silent for the rest of the wait for a tray. I have absolutely no doubt they were mouthing things about me that they didn't want me to hear. I'm used to that. So long as they weren't plotting some kind of humilliating incident/accident, I could most definitely allow them to continue.

Gossip worked quickly. As far as Kurt knew, it was the only thing that travelled faster than light. He expected a few things to be magnified, of course, but not at Xavier's. Having telepaths around tended to keep things honest.  
The new girl had evidently faced down the usually untouchable Emma Frost. She of the forked, silver tongue. Sara also happened to be blind, and suffering from a painful transformation and emergence. Assuming it got that far. Some were whispering that she could be dying.  
Yet there she stood, apparently hale and hearty, chatting in an amiable manner to the counter staff while Kitty and Sarah with an H played lip-reading with each other.  
Kurt stalked closer, pondering what to do while he watched her.  
Twice, she turned as if trying to find something. Twice, those blank white eyes stared right at him.  
It made his fur stand on end.  
"Hallo," he said.  
"Ah. I thought someone was there. I didn't think there were many -ah- dark Germans, though."  
He couldn't help grinning. "I'm covered in blue fur."  
"Ah. Even rarer, then." Despite the spreading rash and blisters, she had a lovely smile. "Sara Louise Adrien, the gossipped girl."  
"You know, then."  
"I suspect." A more Mona Lisa smile. "And now I know."  
"Kurt Wagner," he said. "Delighted to be foiled."  
They shook hands.  
"My, what fascinating hands."  
"There's more of me that fascinated others," he said.  
"And how was your change?"  
"I didn't," he felt bad about disappointing her like that, but honesty was the best policy. "I was born... obvious."  
"Oh."  
He could *see* her deflate. "If you want to talk transformations, you'd need to talk to Hank. He's the doctor around here."  
Now she brightened. "Oh. Thankyou."  
"Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't whisked you away to his lab. If what I've heard is true, he'll want your genes."  
"I'm certain I'll be a fascinating microscope slide," said Sara. "Mayhap the good doctor is being polite and waiting until I'm fed."  
Kurt shrugged. "Could be possible..." he allowed. "But I've never heard of it happening bef--"  
"Oh my stars and garters, where is our newest paragon of the X-gene?" Hank burst in via a staff access door and started dashing around at random.  
"Best to eat something now," Kurt advised. "You may be a while."  
Sara started loading her pockets with muffins.  
Kurt made a split-second decision based on Hank's reaction to his own physiognomy. "Why don't you tell me *all* about the procedures you'd like to do?" he said to the loquacious doctor as he pulled the man aside. "That way, I can tell Sara how many muffins to pack..."  
Kurt prepared himself for a flood of babble and technobabble together.

"You're safe for now," said Kitty. "Kurt's made the sacrifice."  
"Thrown himself in front of a rampaging scientist?"  
"Thrown himself in the path of a chronic chatterbox," Kitty explained. "Hank never uses one word where ten would do."  
"I'll help him find his ears, afterwards," I joked. "Where's Marrow?"  
"She always cuts line early. Says it's not worth it."  
"Ah. The other end of the line is where Frost and her gaggle of chronies hang out and do harpie practice. Yes?"  
"Couldn't have put it better. Us snarkier geeks call them the Rainbow Pantie Parade."  
"Oh dear. Negligees as a fashion choice still 'in'?"  
"In enough," said Kitty. "Those four make it look too good." The muttered 'darn it' only confirmed that Kitty was not of equal breast size with the harpies.  
Neither was I, but I knew more than a few tricks. Including, but not limited to fake boobs. I made a mental note to give her some style advice as soon as humanly possible. Help at least one of us to be confident about our bodies.  
"Oh. Migod. I might be sick," said a voice off to the other end of the line. It wasn't Frost, but I felt safe in assuming it was one of her cadre.  
"Told you it was horrendous," said Frost. "Would you believe it claims to be female?"  
Four voices raised in protests of disgust.  
"Ugh," said a deeper voice. "Makes me want to leave the gender in protest."  
The same vicious voice sprang out of me. "Sure you haven't, already, dear?"  
Gasps from everywhere. Someone, not Kitty, whispered in my ear. "Dude! Don't mess with Thundra."  
The name conjured up a feminine mountain of muscular might, as the comic books might say. And, indeed, a patch of shadow loomed in my field of obscured vision.  
"Careful dear," I singsonged. "You don't want to break a nail so far from the salon."  
She picked me up. I snagged a bowl of something from my tray and readied it.  
"Tell me," I said sweetly. "Are you familliar with the concept of mutually assured destruction?"  
"THAT'S ENOUGH!"  
"Shit," said Thundra. "Cassidy." She quickly put me down. "I wasn't doing anything, Mr Cassidy."  
"Yet," I added.  
"I don't want to hear any blarney," said the Irish brogue of Cassidy. "I want the truth of it here an' now."  
"It's very simple," I said. "She insulted me, I retalliated, she retalliated back by picking me up, and I planned to tip this stuff down her front if she hit me. Were it not for your intervention, I think it could have gone very messy."  
I think he was amazed I got all that out in one breath. "Aye?" he said. "An' how do ye figure that?"  
"Food fights escalate," I said simply. "Especially when you count in a blind girl who could never aim in the first place."  
"Aw fuck..." said Thundra. "Jesus, Emma... you never said a word about her being handicapped."  
Emma had nothing to say, but I could bet she was feigning innocence to the best of her acting ability.  
"Nice of her to hang you out to dry," I murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. "I might be hideous, but at least I know who my friends are."  
Mr Cassidy said, "Right. I have no idea who started what, but it stops here an' now."  
"I don't 'do' handicapped," said Thundra.  
"Neither do I," said my smart mouth.  
"Keep walkin'," advised Cassidy. "What's with the lip?"  
"I think the part of me that's had quite enough has decided to speak up," I said.  
"Let me help you to a table," he offered.  
"I doubt they'd try and trip a blind girl, but I won't say 'no'." I put the random bowl back down and lifted the tray. "Pick an elbow, do."  
"Mr Cassidy?" said another female from Due Frost. "Can you tell the staff to change the trays? I'm pretty sure no-one wants any contaminated food."  
"Meaning the food I touched?" I said. "Big talk from a girl so very far from her native environment. How *is* the weather at the Jersey turnpike these days?"  
"Keep walkin'," said Cassidy, pulling me onwards. "D'ye have any friends with that yap?"  
"Kitty and Marrow so far," I said. "Though I'm sure some other underdogs may yet join us."  
"Since I'm a teacher, I'm not allowed to take sides..." he trailed off to a murmur. "Look like I'm talking you into being good, eh? That Frost's a piece o' work an' then some. If it were up to me, I'd kick 'er right in the complacency an' keep kickin'. But it ain't up to me. Rules say no fightin' - with or without powers. Got it?"  
"One serve of Karma, hold the fracas," I said. "Got it."  
"An' don't think Charles won't catch wind of it," he said.  
"You told Thundra off?" said Kitty. "I thought you were right behind me."  
"Couldn't see you wander off," I said. "So I stood my ground."  
"Yike," said Marrow. "You eating the menu or what?"  
"I've been at MedTechCorp a long time," I explained. "I miss flavour."

Scott found her again in the lower cafeteria. Odd to think that such a vulnerable-looking newcomer could cause so many rumours. All she was doing at the moment was eating and chatting.  
He loomed over her shoulder and waited for her to notice.  
"I hear you've been causing trouble."  
"Not I," she said. "I've been *reacting* to trouble. If anyone's the cause, it's one dear Emma Frost. She can't stand the fact that I won't kowtow."  
Scott sighed. He, too, knew Emma had an annoying lack of empathy for a telepath. "Fighting back won't stop her," he said.  
"I may achieve sufficient pause," said Sara. "Or even help her grow up. Either way, it's something to do that needs must be done."  
"Charles is not going to approve," he said, just picturing the Professor's frown.  
"Charles will no doubt dispense his own Karma in time. Tell me, does he approve of Emma?"  
"They... haven't met yet."  
"HA!"  
"But watch out when he gets back."  
"Don't fret, Mr Summers. I retalliate with scientifically-calibrated force. Right in the Goldilocks Zone."  
He snorted half a laugh. "Try to keep it subtle," he said.  
"One serve of Karma, side of subtlety, hold the fracas," she said. "I can remember that."

Lunch was, eventually, dealth with, at which point, Hank the perpetually eloquent had my elbow. His infirmary-slash-lab had taken over a whole floor, since mutants had an amazing array of disparate needs.  
There was a sentient android somewhere in the mix, a relic of some space journey somewhere, and it was evidently in charge of making extra machinery or space on demand. It answered to the name of Ettoowon.  
Alas, our meeting was a sweep-by introduction and a golden blur in my limited vision. Then we were off again through the many twists and turns in his personal labyrinth.  
He finished the tour at the basic examination room, where he recorded all of my generic particulars. Height, age, weight, bloods and a few other samples of my bodily fluids.  
After that, it was x-rays and an MRI and a series of verbal and tactile puzzles, while a machine nestled on my head and took readings.  
"Fascinating, fascinating," Henry McCoy murmured. "You will be delighted to know that your DNA is perfectly stable."  
It was something of a relief. "Ah. So I'm not dying, it just feels that way."  
He laughed at that. "Indupitably. Though the cause for fascination is, of course, the morphogenic portion of your genetic makeup..."  
He went into another stream of technobabble, which I struggled to understand. It was cold and I was wearing this backless cotton thing that did nothing against the chill. Things started beeping for attention.  
"Oh my stars and garters, I do appologise." Something warm and copious descended around my shoulders. "It seems that your mutation has adapted your physiognomy towards a form of hybernation. Stay where you are, I shall alter the ambient temperature presently."  
"Just as long as it warms up," I mumbled. I was staring at my hand and watching it work in bemusement by the time he returned.  
He said something.  
"Huh?"  
More something, lots of long words. Then the enveloping warm tucked around my shoulders. Worked into my hands.  
Blink.  
I was under a warm blanket of air. Hot towels surrounded my head and shoulders.  
"Ah... I can feel my toes starting to thaw," I said.  
"Excellent. You've returned from that disturbing realm of no conscious thought."  
"Was I entertaining?"  
"Unnerving was the verbal choice that sprang readily to my mind. And I've made note to keep the air conditioning to an amenable atmosphere. Best not to tell of your subconscious' meanderings through the darker realms of human pondering and musings."  
"Better even than I don't know?"  
"Better than better," said Hank. "I fear it would disturb your sleep."  
"Worse than wondering what I said for half the night?"  
For once, Hank left it at a simple, "Yes."

Kitty didn't think of herself as a gossip, but she somehow wound up being the one person people asked most about her roomies. Whether she picked up things or, like now, she became a phenominal snoop, she always liked to find the truth and keep it that way.  
The knapsack was simple and full of the bare basics. Clothes, toiletries, underwear. Bland things that only told about the surface. Though from the T-shirt collection, Kitty could guess that Sara was more than something of a geek.  
The suitcase was locked. A problem for an ordinary mortal, but not for someone who could slide their personal atoms throught the empty space that made up more mundane matter.  
All the same, this took a prize.  
Three dresses, all fancy enough to not need too much decoration, sat in plastic perfection in suit protectors. The high-end ones. Some jewellery. More shirts, and, wrapped very carefully, two photo frames.  
"They're pewter, if you're planning to fence them," said Sara. "The jewellery is not worth as much as it appears. Handmade imitations. It's amazing what one can do with chrome and naval brass."  
"Just looking," said Kitty. "Honest."  
"Must have taken some effort to pick that lock," said Sara. "It came with a guarantee."  
"No good against someone who can phase," she said. "It did give me some trouble, if that helps." She watched Sara feel her way over to the bed and sit.  
"Find out anything gossip-worthy?"  
"I don't gossip. I keep the facts straight."  
"And?"  
"And your facts are weird," Kitty summarized. "Lots of high-end stuff, which means your folks are rich, but your clothes are like... all over the place."  
"I favour Sci-Fi ecclectic as a personal style."  
"You've been in some pretty expensive schools," she began.  
"You can tell that from my things?"  
"I can tell that from your school records," Kitty blushed. "I hack. White hat."  
"Grey hat," said Sara.  
"You got kicked out of a lot of fancy schools and wound up in public school, in Remedial Ed., despite pulling stunts of sublime art and wonder."  
"I don't test well," said Sara. "Nobody told me why."  
"I bet Hank did."  
"At some length, yes. What it boils down to is that I'm smarter than I've been previously lead to believe." A huge, involuntary twitch. "I'm still," tic tic, "dealing with that part."  
"And someone in your family has verbally abused you."  
"You found my blog."  
"Still haven't cracked all the code, yet."  
"The Dragon is my mother, Daddy has a host of pseudonyms centred around the letter D, and most of my contemporaries get personality-based nicknames. Oh. And Mother's side of the family is the Gorgon patrol."  
"Right," said Kitty. "That only makes half as much sense as it should."  
"I have to keep a *few* secrets," said Sara. "I may yet meet a man for whom I simply must reserve some mystique."  
Kitty handed over the photo frames. "I have no idea if you can even use these."  
"Sentimental value." Sara caressed the oval frame, which contained an image of an older woman, all in pink. Then she found the trash bin and dropped it in. "Some more sentimental than others, naturally."  
"Who was she?"  
"She's the bad half of my DNA," Sara found an edge, the dressing table, and a space to put the rectangle frame in. "The dark side. The piece of me that wants me to fail... and so on." The rectangle contained Sara and an older man. So obviously her father. "Best to accentuate the positive and... practice attrition on the negative."  
Scott knocked on the open door. "Hi. Sorry it took me so long, but... here." He introduced Sara's hand to a folded stick. "Have some independance. Free of charge."  
It took Sara seconds to unfold it and figure out the basics. "Thank you, Mr Summers. This will do nicely."

There was something of a temporary truce over the next week. Meaning that hostile exchanges were limited to verbal one-shots, like:  
"Frost, don't even think of stealing materials from a blind girl."  
"What? How'd you know it was me?"  
"The stench of your Eau-de-Whore is unmistakable."  
Or:  
"See? I told you it was still alive."  
"See? I told you she was still stupid."  
Or:  
"My sweet God... did anyone tell you about colour co-ordination?"  
"Yeah. Same guy who told you about dressing for the season."  
Or:  
"Can I swap seats with someone? I don't want what she's having."  
"Relax. I hear herpes renders you immune."  
Therefore, when the Professor finally returned, they were both in front of his desk in short order.The otherwise unassuming bald man in a wheelchair surveyed both girls. One, who had no idea who he was and how important he had become to everyone here, and the other who could only listen for his presence.  
"I understand there's been some animosity," he said, breaking the ice with an understatement worthy of a medal.  
The tall girl covered in festering sores coughed her way around, "...puttingitmildly..."  
The young blonde lady - dressed like one of the night - flipped her long hair with the air of someone who knows they have perfect, straight blonde hair and can use it to get away with anything shy of actual murder. "I honestly have no idea what started it, Professor," she lied. "I went to help when she had a mental breakdown and... something happened. I think maybe she blames me 'cause I'm a telepath? She's not... youknow... enlightened? About us?"  
Another coughing fit covered a, "...bullshit..."  
"See? She's instantly and automatically hostile whenever I enter the room."  
"I'm only hostile against people who deserve hostility... hoarfrost."  
Her act of indignance could have won a prize.  
The Professor held up his hand. "Sara?"  
"I'm guessing you've already riffled through both our memories about this. Nothing much could stop you if I've heard things correctly."  
"I don't pry without permission," he said. "I'd rather hear your side of the story."  
"Imagine, first, having the alleged magic of one's childhood assassinated. Imagine, then, living amongst monsters who wear one face in public... and another *just* for you. Imagine being repeatedly put away. Can't have the likes of *you* embaressing the guests. Then imagine finding a place that sounds like paradise. And there's real magic there. Genuine... unkillable magic." A sigh and the memory of scales. The reality of a true dragon. "And then you find out that they have monsters there, too."  
"See?" said Emma. "I told you she was insane. She's like, living in this alternate reality or something."  
Then Sara spoke with Emma's voice. "Geez, what's with the meltdown? Eee-ouk. I know exactly what happened. It got a good look at its face."  
Emma's face was a picture. Possibly by Heironymous Bosch.  
"Eidactic memory." Sara explained. "One of the few good points."  
"Emma," he decided to give the girls an 'out'. "Do you think there's something that can be done in order to... salvage a form of peace?"  
"Separate schools?"  
"Psh! Like that'd work," said Sara. "Your kind are nothing without someone to victimise."  
"Oh yeah? Well you... you... you're... You're a fraud!"  
"Oh ho... How do you figure this one out?"  
"I googled you, 'Sara Louise'... *if* that's your real name. You're getting buried next week."  
Heaven alone knew where Miss Frost had hidden the piece of paper, but it was warm to the touch when it graced his hands.  
"Can't read ink-on-paper," said Sara. "Could you enlighten me?"

_Society Star Mourns Daughter,_ the headline blared. "The first five paragraphs are about a Jaquelline Adrien."  
Sigh. "Mother..."  
"It goes on about her tireless work for good causes. Then it says that Sara Louise, her daughter, perished as a result of a tragic genetic accident that the doctors were attempting to cure. Then it goes back to Jaquelline, mentioning that she's commencing a charity in Sara's name."  
"No mention of Dad, then?"  
"Only that he couldn't be reached for comment."  
"Is the author of that piece Evangeline Nesbit-Pierce?"  
"...yes?"  
"She's one of Mother's sisters. Does the society pages and gossip. Doesn't do much in the way of research. Where's my death certificate, Frost?"  
"Uh..."  
"Wait. Wait. I even know where it's being held. Sunshine, Peace and Serenity Funeral home. They're the folks who'll do anything for the Gorgons' money. Used so much wax on Great-Aunt Hettie that she was practically a doll. I heard they were going in for holograms, now, though. Shows how much loot they've snaffled."  
"How did you know it said that?" Emma demanded. "Nobody said it said that! You're lying about being blind!" And, without warning, she balled up a fist and hit Sara.  
The blind girl reeled, staggered, and came back up grinning. "That was physical violence, Frost. I heard they have a zero tolerance policy, here. You're *screwed*."  
"I wouldn't have put it *quite* that succinctly, but yes. Emma. Kitchen Duty. For a week."  
"But she--"  
"Couldn't see the blow coming, Emma. You'd know that if you skimmed the edge of her consciousness."  
"But--"  
"And we will be spending a further two weeks training your mental prowess."  
Sara snorted.  
"And as for you, Miss Adrien... Escalation of the problem does not solve *anything*. There is a certain amount of provocation in your attitude, and I do not like that. Do you have anything to say?"  
"Only that I've lived my entire life with monsters like her and I'm not afraid, any more. I may be 'provoking' her, but I do that by doing the worst thing anyone can do to her kind."  
"My 'kind'?"  
"I stand up and say 'no'." Sara had turned to face Emma down. "No, I will not let you humiliate me for the sake of your pride. No, I will *not* treat you like the superstar you happen to think you are. No, I *will* not feed your vainglory. No! Get used to hearing it, Emma Frost, because for all your surface charm, I know what a rotten, disease-infested, putrescent soul is festering behind all that... that... *varnish*. All you pretend to be is varnish. I know what you really are."  
"You--"  
"Don't even think about challenging me. I might find out some more about your past. Miss Rimenweitz."  
If anything, Emma went paler. The breath went out of her and she reeled as if struck.  
"I propose a truce. The only truce your kind can understand. Leave me alone or I'll destroy you."  
"Miss Adrien! That is strictly uncalled for."  
"In your opinion, sir."  
He was going to have trouble with her. Mostly because she was reacting to old wounds rather than new challenges in front of her. "You have a week without her... ringleading. By that time I shall have rearranged your schedules so that it will take an effort to instigate trouble."  
"Then we'll see who thinks whom is worth the most effort," said Sara.

The professor was true to his word, so I naturally felt impelled to remain true to the bargain. All I concerned myself with was getting into the rhythm of classes and occasionally being helpful far, far away from Emma and her crowd of flunkies.  
That didn't stop any of them from trying things 'accidentally-on-purpose'. Nothing elaborate and nothing original... which meant I was adequately prepared to turn it back on them with almost spooky prescience for the casual observer.  
Of course, Emma and her crew escalated while I merely... reflected. According to the ever-present murmurs, the classic came one fine lunchtime, as I was readying a meal.  
"Here," said Emma's voice. "A little appology gift. Made special."  
I smelled chocolate... and ex-lax.  
"Thankyou," I smiled. "I'm sure the professor will appreciate it." I walked away, tray in one hand and cane in the other, tap-tapping my way towards the exit.  
It really was a tray for the professor. Everyone thought I was pretending, but the man had this habit of skipping meals that needed to come to an end. I'd been taking meals up to him for a few days.  
I was almost to the door when I heard a doppler-distorted, "No no no no no, it's do-o-o-oped!" and then I was hit by a ninety-pound whore-bomb.  
Applause greeted the hot-soup-and-ex-lax-blancmange-covered emergeance from the resultant tangle. It went on for some time before some of the teaching body scooped us up and ferried us directly to the good professor's offices.  
His presence radiated annoyance. It was all I could do to not appologise on the spot. All I had done was reflect Emma's deeds back on to herself. And all this time, I thought I'd found my strength. What was I doing? Using every last nerve to stand up straight in front of a font of fury.  
"Miss Frost," said the Professor. "According to your schedule, and those of your... companions... none of you should have the time to even glance in the direction of miss Adrien."  
I bit my tongue to stop an, _I'm sorry Professor._ The man was giving me counselling and advice on the best way to proceed with Mother's forthcoming show of public grief. Part of me wanted to make it all better. I was shaking.  
_He's nothing like Mother. Remember. Nothing like Mother._ Indeed, he'd encountered a near-miss with my stress-induced epilepsy... thing... and was bound and determined to help me get rid of it the safe way. Unpacking my mental boxes, one by one. Almost tirelessly. Maybe I was afraid he'd take all the help away.  
Or maybe the idea of blaming Sara Louise was so ingrained in my neural processes that I automatically began taking the heat and making restitution.  
What the heck was wrong with me?  
Emma was silent for longer than the Professor allowed for an answer, so he added, "You have so much potential. Why do you insist on wasting it with petty rivalry?"  
"Petty? *Petty*?"  
"...tra la la?" I subvocalized.  
Emma growled. "That... that *thing*... Do you have any idea what she-- d'rrrrgh!"  
"My *dear*," I cooed. "I had no idea you viewed a blind, crippled freak as such a threat. Should I warn the Professor? 'Cause in a few days I may need a wheelchair to get around." Oops. I didn't quite mean to imply that the Professor was a freak.  
_No offense taken,_ said his voice in my head. _We're all someone else's freak._  
Hm. Interesting angle. Now I was biting my tongue not to use it to stab dear Emma in the metaphorical back.  
"She poured hot soup on me!"  
"Spilled, dear," I corrected. "And the reason *why* I spilled it is because some obnoxious moron went and flying-tackled me."  
"No need for insults, Sara," said the Professor.  
"I appologise to all the morons," I said sincerely.  
"You see? You *see*?"  
"...your stupid little minds, stupid..." I murmured.  
"How can you let her get away with that?" Emma screeched. "She's openly mocking me!"  
"I thought I was free-associating. Keeps my mind off the pain. You could probably find that out if--" I stopped myself. Sighed. Amended my words. "If you bothered to learn."  
"And now she's saying I'm stupid!"  
"Willfully ignorant, perhaps. Honestly, dear. The first rule of combat - and I believe *you* declared the war - is 'know your enemy'... and yet you continually strike at me with no intelligence at all."  
"SHE DID IT AGAIN!"  
"Information, then," I iced. "You haven't even noticed that I never initiate hostilities."  
"You're certainly prepared for them," Emma growled.  
"Only because you're so predictable. I've seen it all before. Multiple times. *Enough* multiple times to have effective counter-strategies prepared and at hand. Now what would you say that might mean. Hmmm?"  
"It means you're a fucking freak!"  
"Then define 'normal'." The new speaker was Herr Wagner. He taught languages, fencing and acrobatics. He also had something of a silver tongue and, as I found out, the most obvious of mutations.  
I always thought he felt like a baby bunny, but I kept such things to myself. He was, after all, a grown man.  
"...eep," said Emma.  
In that second, that flinch that bought her body heat so very close to me, the girl she never actually touched without distaste... I knew.  
"You're scared of changing," I blurted. "I represent your nightmares made flesh. Huh. I still don't understand why you feel it's necessary to humilliate me. If the unthinkable does occur, it only invites everyone - and I *do* mean everyone - to turn the tables on *you*."  
Emma flinched away from me, backing into a corner. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"  
Oh *dear*. "By any chance... do you or family follow the rhetoric of the neo-conservatives like that Daniel Marsham fellow?"  
"STAY THE HELL OUT OF MY HEAD!"  
I shook my head. "Honestly. Sometimes I think we should make one of those cheesy High School health movies. 'Mutancy - DNA or Disease?' I could probably finance it, you know..."  
Herr Wagner was muffling laughter.  
"Kurt..." sighed the Professor.  
"Just enjoying the irony. Honest. She's been raised to hate who she is."  
"Her and around eighty percent of the GLBT community," I added. "Professor, I cede my hour. Emma needs it more."  
"You *dare*!"  
"It's not a dare, dear," I said. "It's compassion." I bit down to stop a, _you may want to look that last word up._ "You obviously have more issues than I do. You need help."  
"I don't have issues! I have an *affliction*! All I'm doing here is waiting until they have the cure released and then I'm gone!"  
"And if you're immune?" I said. "Like me?"  
The next thing I knew I was on the floor. Emma was screaming incoherently and the good Professor was struggling. With what, I couldn't tell.  
"Hello, Mr Foot," I murmured. "Meet Miss Mouth. You two will get on famously." My jaw hurt. Dear Emma evidently had a neat right hook. Part of me figured I deserved it.  
Herr Wagner and the Professor had their hands full with a fashionista apparently raised by FOH-type wolves. They'd barely notice I was gone.  
Hank would be guaranteed to have a cold-pack.

"Aaaaah."  
Hank swivelled. _Found her, Charles._  
_Give her my regards._  
"Charles says that fleeing the scene is almost a fine-able offence."  
"He noticed?" Sara was holding a gel pack against her face. "Wow."  
"Why act so surprised? Your presence generally enlivens an area."  
"Only in mutant central. Everywhere else, I just... fade away." She hissed and shifted her weight. Her stance was becoming increasingly awkward, of late.  
"More blisters?"  
"Welts, weals, blisters... whatever they are. They *do* want to spread."  
"Almost time for the wheelchair, methinks."  
"I just have one more thing to do. I may need some help."

"I do not understand," said Piotr. "Why me?"  
"This is what happens when you snooze during crisis meetings, dear," Sara murmured, just on the edge of hearing. "Where's the coffin?" The best description for her wardrobe was 'wrapped in black'. It all made it hard to tell who or even what she was.  
Many, seeing her walking aids, had already assumed she was old.  
"Slightly to the right of center. They have podium up on the left."  
"Huh. Typical mother."  
The MC or whatever they were called appeared out of nowhere. "Can you be helped?"  
Sara's Russian was perfect, if crude. She swapped to heavily accented English. "You have Sara Louise here? My liddle Sosha?"  
"Are you on the guest list?"  
"Guest list? *Guest* list? Who is this idiot to deny family? I leave her twenty-five million in my will. I go where I like, da?"  
The man had a small paroxysm and went flicking through his paperwork muttering the word "Russian" over and over again.  
Meanwhile, Sara's fingers had found the coffin.  
"Closed," she announced. "I know these people. They fool many and take money. They not have my Sosha. Open it. See who *is* in there."  
"We usually open the coffin a few minutes prior to the ceremony, once all the guests are settled."  
"Pfeh. I say goodbye now. Not when that woman is here to crow. Open it, lickspittle."  
"This is highly irregular."  
"I have one thousand dollar to pay for irregular."  
He moved so fast there was red shift.  
"See? You have money, they do anything."  
Sara was also in the box. This was the Sara that had not suffered from creeping boils over the past week.  
"See, madame? Your -ah- 'little Sosha'."  
Sara reached out and put her hand right through the body. "I see nothing but bricks. What scams you pull, eh? What you do with her? Where is my Sosha? You cut her up for parts, da?"  
"NO!"  
"Ha! He deny it. They chop you up here and sell for anything they get. Always for more money."  
"No! Never! We... we didn't receive a body. There was a mix-up at the Morgue and they can't find her."  
"Pah."  
"Honestly, madame! We're at our wits end. We've even hired a discrete detective to find out what happened to her."  
"[Anyone been nosing around the school?]" asked Sara in Russian.  
"Nyet," said Piotr.  
"Must not be any good. Has not found her."  
"You must understand that Mrs Adrien is *very* influential. If there were any delays or disruptions to her ceremony... it would destroy us."  
"Also because of body parts," said Sara.  
"*That* regrettable incident has been put *far* behind us, madame."  
"How many you have to bribe?"  
"If you'll excuse me, madame... I must assist the television crews."  
Sara waited for him to whisk away. "Television? Oh, Petey-boy. This is going to be *poetic*."  
"I think I almost wet my pants," he murmured.  
"You can leave me here if you need to 'go'. I'll be quiet until Mother starts pontificating."  
"[I do not like this.]"  
"[You don't have to. Just help me around when the time comes, eh?]"  
Piotr wisely decided to 'go' before things went to hell.

It was a circus. I heard lots from the Pierce side of the family, but the Adriens were few and far between. Carefully selected based on their gross annual income and lack of knowledge of Mother's general behaviour. I hid my rage under feigned grief.  
There were lots of Mother's friends, fellow gorgons, all. Many were badgering their young to stay civil in front of the cameras.   
Flashes made their way through the fog. Either Mother had invited some Papparazi, or some of the moderately-famous had also been invited.  
Poetic. Oh yes. Just like the old Greek tragedies.  
Mother was wearing Prada, buckets of her perfume and, judging by the blur I could make out, *black*. For the first time in memory, she wasn't wearing pink. And I couldn't really see it.  
"My dear friends," she began. "It is indeed unfortunate that we should all come together in such tragic circumstances."  
One of my more irreverent patches of mind began singing, _Bullshit. That's the band could play. Bullshit. Just each and ev'ry day._  
"Those of you who knew Sara--" few and far between in *this* crowd "--knew her as a quiet, unassuming soul."  
_Bullshit. Big piles of bullshit..._  
"All she ever did was try to make the world a little better, in her own... ideosyncratic ways."  
_And now they're buried... under it... hooray. Dah dat dat dat da..._  
"It's her example that I intend to follow."  
Really?  
"Her tireless work to free the gentle Thylacine," _Oh-ho..._ "her explorations into the field of medical aid," _Uh oh._ "Even her experiments in the entertainment industry. All of these will be continuing with my help. And some of her friends who have nobly volunteered."  
_You never approved of any of my friends._  
"Also to this end, I am beginning a charity to help those poor unfortunates who, like Sara, suffered under a disasterous genetic disorder."  
_It's called 'mutancy', Mother. And I doubt you'd touch a 'sufferer' with a forty-foot barge pole._ I shifted my weight. Any minute now, she'd be going for endorsement from beyond the grave.  
"If Sara was alive today," Mother said.  
There was my cue.  
"She would stand beside me and say--"  
"SHENNANIGANS!" I stood up, pulling off the wig, hat and veil that had helped hide me. "I *am* alive, Mother. And I doubt you've bought your *gun* this time." It was pure pain to stride over there and snatch the mike, but a golden moment comes but once. "The last time we spoke, this so-called 'angel of charity' held a gun to my head and told me that if I ever came home again, she would kill me. And by the way, my 'unfortunate genetic disorder' is known on the street as 'being a mutant'."  
The crowd exploded in cries of outrage and disgust. Many, *many* of the higher-ups in the crowd had done awareness campaigns and the like on behalf of mutants. Many were on Xavier's side. The Pierce side of the family were awfully quiet.  
"My name is Sara Louise Adrien and," I dug into the bottom of the coffin and extracted the holo-emitter, "rumours of my demise have been somewhat exaggerated."

The holographic body waved around in the air like some macabre stick before the illusion faded out as the emitter quit. Emirate Jones had been certain there had never been a body in the first place. Now he knew. He, like many others in the room, got out his cell. He had a hot line to a certain detective in the local arm of the law.  
John was going to just *love* this.  
"Somebody better be dying," said John.  
"How does faking a relative's death for possible fraud suit you?"  
A moment of quiet. "I'm liking that better."  
The funeral home goons were barring the door, but it was already too late. The whole world knew, thanks to the cameras beaming everything to their respective stations.  
Ah, live feed. Gotta love it.

The good Professor bailed her out, explaining several mental disorders that had mitigated her behaviour. Having the helpful DVD of past seizure events helped, since it also established Jaquelline Adrien as an out-and-out harridan. Alas, they'd seized her walking aids, so they all but carried her out to meet him.  
"And I thought you were capable of subtlety."  
"That, sir, I'm reserving for Ms Frost. My mother," sneer, "necessitated something... extravagant. Public. Just like her performance at my quote-unquote funeral. She was planning to rape all my companies and pervert my hard work for mere *profit*! She *had* to be destroyed."  
Emma, nervously following in his shadow, flinched. She could feel the years of bile floating behind those words.  
_Yes,_ he thought. _See. This is what happens if you grind someone down far enough that they temper and sharpen and turn against you. Be grateful that she counts you a mere annoyance, Emma._  
One of the policemen helped her into an elbow crutch, which Sara leaned on heavily. "I apologize if this reflects badly on your school, sir... but at least this way, there is no lasting confusion about my legal existence as a living person."  
"Yes." he massaged his sinuses. "And I'm certain they won't be forgetting about you very soon."  
Sara grinned. "And I didn't use an atom of my mutant powers."  
"You're officially under my custody until the officials figure out who to press charges upon. *Please* don't do anything *else* that infringes on the law?"  
"Promise," said Sara. "Won't even bootleg an MP3."

I had three days of peace, during which the only bother I had was whether or not to switch to a wheelchair. Periodic soaks in Hank's miracle goo, diluted in the bathtub, helped a little, but the effects didn't last all day.  
Kurt caught me massaging some of the stuff into my feet in a hallway.  
"It's getting worse, isn't it?"  
"The wheelchair's pointless anyway. I can't sit comfortably." I think I grunted. Everything *hurt*. "Only two more classes. I can deal with two more classes."  
He lifted me up. "Nein, liebchen. *You* are going straight down to the Infirmary."  
I started to protest, but thought better. "Right. This is a frog soup malady if there ever was one."  
"Er. Frog. Soup?"  
"Sorry. Shorthand. Legend says that if you're cruel enough to drop a frog into hot water, it'll hop right out. But put it in tepid water, and gradually increase the temperature... it'll stay put until -well- frog soup."  
"Eurgh."  
"Yes. Rather." I leaned against that baby bunny fuzz. One of the few things that didn't *hurt*. "I'd been hanging on for my alleged funeral so much that I got used to toughing it out for one more day."  
"And now it's one more class, ja?"  
"And tomorrow it might even be one more hour." I unhooked a crutch. "I yield, sir. The field of battle and my weapon is thine."  
Wry. "I'd take it, but my hands are full."  
I loved him for making me laugh.

Hank was surprised to see Kurt using the door. And the floor for that matter. But then, he also had a patient in his arms, so that explained everything.  
"I have the regen tank ready to go. All I need to do is prep the nasogastric tube and the IV."  
"I'll help," said Kurt.  
"I'll wait," said Sara.  
When they came back, she was holding a small card. Oh dear. Frost had come by.  
"She invited you to her Halloween extravaganza?"  
"Apparently she invites everyone."  
"Rather a nice degree of cattiness, there. 'In your case, come as you are'. Feh. I'd show her, but I'm too sore."  
"This will anaesthetise your throat. Open?"  
"Augh..."  
Fsst. Fsst.  
She coughed. "Euw. Does it have to taste tho howwibwe? Aw man... ith makin' me talk funny."  
"Just relax. This is as uncomfortable as it looks."

It was. But after that, I was immersed in blessed, thick, insulating and warm miracle goo. Concentrated. All the hurt went away. Even my eyes stopped itching and scratching.  
It was bliss. I didn't want to leave.

Hank was deep into his online distractions when, "Ding! I think the process has quite finished. That, and my eyes won't shut and it's starting to more than verge on annoying. Can I have a towel?"  
She had evidently bulked up inside the tank. Her skin was stretched almost to bursting. Even her white eyes were bulging. To put it impolitely, she looked like a walking corpse.  
"Try forcing them shut."  
There was a wet squitch sound as her eyes apparently burst. When they opened again, far more normal eyes peered out from behind oozing white fragments.  
"Oh," she said. "Of course. No wonder it feels like I'm running around in a sleeping bag. I need a scalpel and a dissection tray, please."  
Hank fetched them, and busied himself with ensuring documentation. That was why he was too far away to stop her stabbing herself in the hand.  
"Whoops," said Sara cheerfully. She danced over to the sink and let flow a stream of slightly viscous fluid that, though clear, smelled oddly of lilac. Her inflated skin drooped around her frame. "Sorry about the mess." And then she began pulling herself out of her former shell.  
It was fascinating to watch. A slim, aqua-scaled hand emerged from the limp shell of her old hand, then pulled at the other as if it were a glove. Her body distorted and squirmed, and now there were two hands pulling her arm apart from the inside, all the way to the head, which peeled off.  
"Fpleh... That is a singularly bizarre personal experience," she said, shimmying off the remainder of her old hide. "I wonder if I could have that stuffed..."  
Hank, mouth agape, handed her a robe.  
"My goodness. The loquacious and erudite Hank McCoy is struck *dumb*? Am I that horrible?"  
"Quite... Quite the opposite, dear lady. Words simply cannot express..."  
Ettoowon handed her a mirror. "Physiognomic configurations match previous reaction from local mammalian sentient. Expressing match." An electronic wolf whistle, followed by an appreciative, "Yow-zah..."  
Sara looked. "Oh my goodness. How soon until dear Emma's famous bash?"  
"I do believe it is tomorrow night."  
"Correct," said Ettoowon.  
A nasty, *nasty* grin. "Doctor Hank? Could be an absolute darling and tell anyone who asks that I'm still pickling?"  
He felt like he was on some very thin ice. "Uh. Why?"  
"I'm going to turn dear Emma's do into her own surprise party."

Of course I let the Professor in on it. He was the first one I asked, after Hank. He was essential, not only because he could literally put the kibosh on it with a thought, but because he currently held Power of Attorney for me while I was... ill.  
And, let's face it, I wanted to show off.  
"...and of course the only drawback is that I'm pathologically opposed to being naked, but it is somewhat cool, no?"  
"You did have a point when you came here," he reminded me.  
"Oh. Yes. Emma. Dear Emma. Needs a lesson rammed home with a sledgehammer. Subtlety is *not* going to work."  
"I surmised as much."  
"All I really need is my money back and a working knowledge of the local shopping zones. Ooo. Maybe an accomplice. Think I would be allowed to rope in my roomie?"  
He was trying to fathom me, I could tell. His face looked like a cross between confusion, fear and... well... constipation. "I think," he said eventually, "Kitty would eternally ticked off with you if you left her out."  
"Yes!"  
"*But*..."  
"I knew there'd be a 'but'."  
"Since you insist on playing your cards so close to your chest... I must, in turn, insist that you significantly aid in repairing any and all damages that are a direct result."  
That lead to some confusion. "Um. I'm not even looking at the cards, sir."  
Shock. "Sara Louise Adrien, you could be very dangerous if you set your mind to it."  
I grinned. "I'm only dangerous to people I despise. Dear Emma's just a baby dragon who needs a kick in her complacency. I will *not* blow anything up. I swear."  
Then he uttered the words of doom. "Let's see what happens."

The party was going fantastically, which meant that all male eyes that counted were on her. Especially the embarressed gaze of Warren Worthington III. He kept acting like he didn't know where to look, but his attention kept wandering straight back to the focal point, her boobs.  
Her costume was simple and efficient, The Winter Queen. Which meant she got to wear as little as humanly possible whilst bedecked with as many diamonds and 'icicles' as she could get away with. And it was working. She could tell by the deepening blush on Worthington's face.  
He was so new that all he'd done was essentially throw on a toga. She'd have to tell him that the laurel was completely out of place. Later.  
"You look absolutely fantastic in a bedsheet," she said. "Makes me want to see what you look like in mine."  
"Uh..." he said.  
"How about it? You and me and about fifteen minutes of divine bliss?"  
He edged away. "Tell you what," he managed. "You name who I'm dressed as and I'll let you have a kiss."  
"You're an angel, duh. I mean, what else goes around with wings in a toga?"  
"Eeeenh. Wrong answer, thanks for playing."  
"I'll take that wager."  
Emma instantly recognized the mind behind the speaker. That unreadable, eternal mass of chaos that could only be the freak. Except, when Emma looked, the freak was no longer a freak.  
Well, she was still freak*ish*, what with the green-blue skin and all, but... well...  
She made it look *good*.  
The ultimate insult was what she wore.  
It was the lingerie-streetwear of Emma and her clique, but the style had been ramped up to the extreme. Yes, there was a push-up bra, but it was one of the extravagant ones that also passed as jewellery. It peeked out of a shortie top that looked like it had been designed to fall just short enough of the midriff to only give peeks at the gem in her navel. The pants were quasi-slacks that theoretically reached her ankle. The outside seam was left open, only held in place by strings of emeralds. Both pants and top held a peek-a-boo vine and leaf pattern that took serious attention away from Emma. There was a G-string, but it didn't flaunt its presence. Over the lot was a see-through aqua coat, designed to remain open, which had a subtle, fluffy trim.  
Those sandal-high heels were worth killing for.  
"Hope you don't mind," said Sara. "I decided to come as I wasn't."  
"Sara," said Warren, who had so far failed to remember Emma's name. "You're all green..."  
"I rather thought of myself as a little bit blue-ish, War. Or should I say... Eros?"  
"I could be one of the winds," he dodged.  
"Not without the parephenalia. Besides, you have the wrong wings for most of them. Pay up, dear."  
He laughed. "Only too glad."  
They fit so well together it made her blood boil. And the kiss - she timed it - lasted damn near fifteen minutes.  
"Most *definitely* Eros," she said. "And be glad my lipstick doesn't smear. Aqua wouldn't look well on those lips."  
"Felt *damn* fine a minute ago. Shall we dance?"  
And then they were all watching her. Not Emma. And there was the laughter from those who weren't watching.  
Kitty Pryde was stumbling around in a parody of Emma's usual daywear. Her hair was silver tinsel, and the oversized bra was padded with actual tissue boxes. She had a roll of 'Mr Yuck' face stickers that she was giving out to anyone in passing.  
Emma loomed over the little weed. "You. Dare," she threatened.  
It didn't work. For the first time in history, it didn't work. "Oh. My. Gahd. That slutwear is just *so* not you. Not with *those* love-handles. Heck, darling, that's practically a love-zimmerframe. And *do* something about that hair."  
Thpuck. She had a 'Mr Yuck' on her forehead.  
Raucous laughter chased her onto the dance floor, where she tore the freak and her intended lay apart.  
"You bitch, you turned them all against me!" She meant to strike, but Warren very suddenly and efficiently had her arms behind her back.  
"And in the space of a few minutes, too," said the freak. "If I were you I'd seriously consider how little effort was actually involved in my part... and what it means about you as a person."  
She was panting. Trying not to cry. "...you bitch..."  
"You changed your face. You changed your body. You even changed your name. And all that glamour is worth nothing because, dear Emma, you are still a horrible person on the inside. Everyone knows it. Even your so-called friends are no longer rushing to defend you."  
She scanned, rather than look around in panic. They were actively distancing themselves from a Scene.  
Emma pulled her ace in the hole. She transformed her body into living diamond. Invulnerable. Strong. Incapable of tears.  
Warren let go.  
That was all she needed. She balled up her fists and set one flying with a scream...  
...and froze in place.  
_That's quite enough, Emma._  
The Professor. He'd come too. In some kind of red and black spandex jumpsuit thing.  
The freak caught her as she started to tip. There was no hate in her. Not an atom of it. Just... pity.  
"Sorry, dear, but your weltenschaung needs a major overhaul. Stat. Keep going the way you are and you'll end badly. I've seen it happen before."  
The Professor let her speak.  
"You *stole* him from me," she growled.  
"War? I wasn't aware he belonged to anyone. Dear? Do you happen to have anyone's name on your person?"  
"Not the last time I checked. There is a tag on the sheet, though."  
Sara propped Emma up and obligingly read it. "One hundred percent cotton, and some washing instructions. No contracts of ownership, I'm afraid. He'll just have to go where e'er he whist."  
Kitty appeared by her right ear. "That's why people go to her. She doesn't force them through hoops."  
"You will follow me," ordered the Professor. It was a compulsion. "We have a lot of work to do."  
The ultimate stab in the back was the collective sigh of relief from the entire party as she left it.

Sara was having more than a nice catch-up chat with Warren when she was aware that Thundra was looming.  
"Is there something you wish to discuss?"  
"You're covered from neck to ankle and you get more men looking at you than all of us combined."  
"Define 'us'," said Sara.  
"You know. Emma's crew. I know you call us the Rainbow Pantie Parade when we aren't listening." She sighed. "I *want* men to look at me. Even in this get up, I still get 'sir' in the stores."  
"Oh dear," said Sara. "So you came to *me* for style advice?"  
"It's plain to me you know how to bring it."  
Warren had seen the portents and supplied a napkin and a pen.  
"You already have an hourglass shape, which is good. The shoulders and your general muscular bulk is what we need to work on. Not conceal, no. Just... emphasise in the correct manner. Primarily, I would loose that vest. And the... uhm... Minnie Mouse 'do. I do happen to have some hair goo that can work miracles in a relatively short amount of time. Perhaps you'd like to try some out, later?"  
"Hon, I'd try anything."  
"Now with your skin tone, I'm thinking we could try some different colours. Perhaps in the royal range. Purple, maybe a ruby red. As for the outfit..." her hand was sketching automatically. "Decolletage, yes. Perhaps a bustierre... maybe even so far as a superfluous corset. Definitely some variety of skirt. Flowy material. Soft and lovely. A lady of your stature doesn't need that much in the way of heel. Coats should be high in the back of the collar to focus the eye on your -ah- assets, and help draw attention to your face. And go for the no-makeup look. Just a tiny hint of sparkle is all you need."  
She looked at the sketch. "Jessica Rabbit?"  
"Yes, but with more of an undulation to the hem line."  
"I'd be a black Jessica Rabbit?"  
"It'd work on you. And I know half a dozen places that cater for the... well... odd-bodied."  
"That many?"  
"I did only have forty-eight hours to cook this outfit up, dear. I'm sure I'd find more, given enough time."  
"That does it," said Thundra. "You an' me? We goin' *shopping* tomorrow."  
"Plain clothes?"  
"Sure thing."  
War shook his head at her.  
"What?"  
"I recognise exactly where all that good advice comes from and I know you won't like it if I tell you."  
"When, War. When you tell me. Because you also know that I'm in extreme dislike of an undisclosed secret." She glared at him in a playful way. "Especially after its existance has been disclosed."  
"Just keep in mind that this bedsheet's a rental, okay?"  
"You are currently holding the beverages, War."  
"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He backed away a pace anyway. "All that good advice comes from your Mother."  
"Do go on," she said in an ominous tone. As in, this-had-better-be-good-or-you'll-wake-up-with-kharma.  
"Everything on style advice, you got from your Mother, *but*, and this is the important bit... you twist it around so that the recipient feels *good* afterwards."  
Sara tilted her head at an angle and closed her eyes. Her lips moved as if in silent calculation. "Huh," she said at last. "The old harridan does have her uses. All I have to do is find a different release valve for all that spare bile."  
"Art's always good."

**Author's Note:**

> Ran out of oomph on this one. Sorry. Keep trying to figure out what kind of malarky I could get my characters up to.


End file.
